Baba

From the first hello in August, it felt like we'd already known each other for years — two people who'd somehow been circling back to each other for lifetimes. Twin flames, you call us. I believe it.

We built a home together, out of nothing but two people who refused to stop choosing each other. We named our cars, raced down roads that didn't matter as long as we were in them together, snuck into movies, ate too much good food and talked about it in the worst fake accents. Dehradun and Kanatal happened, and somewhere between the songs and the dancing, you gave me a ring I still catch myself reaching for on my finger, even after I lost it. That was on me — and I still love that ring more than almost anything I own.

We made gujiya on Diwali, threw color at each other on Holi, and fell in love with flowers all over again — buying them for each other like it was the only language we trusted. We worked hard, we grew, we got stable. Together, always together. No one else. Not even the air between us.

So today, the girl who loves me like a mother and looks at me like I'm home — I just want to say the only thing I've ever meant this much.